Page 29 of The Dragon 2
What I knew for sure is that he would fling the door open, snatch the bag from the seat, and bolt like he was hand-delivering nuclear codes.
I grinned so hard it hurt.
Because the idea that Kenji needed my panties so bad that he had launched a same-day international courier mission before breakfast?
Yeah.
That was the hottest thing anyone had ever done for me.
My mind kept spiraling.
Was there going to be a signature form for my wet panties?
A customs declaration?
Would there be tracking?
Was someone going to scan the barcode and be like, “Ah yes, this package here is headed directly into the hands of Japan’s most feared Yakuza boss. And it smells like sin and lilacs.”
I pressed my hand to my mouth to keep from laughing because Kenji had respondedin the most insane, possessive, I-run-the-underworld-and-I-don’t-have-time-for-messages, way possible.
I cleared my throat and took the bag. “Okay. Please give me one minute.”
He bowed again.
I backed up slowly and shut the door.
Kenji, you are fucking insane.
Chuckling, I set the bag on the floor, hooked my fingers under the waistband of my panties, and peeled them down my thighs inch by slow inch.
Of course they were still damp.
Still warm.
The heat between my legs clung to the cotton, turning the simple act of removing underwear into something holy. My breath caught as the fabric slid over my knees, then pooled around my ankles.
This has got to be one of the craziest mornings of my life.
I bent over, picked the panties up, and cradled them in my hands. The delicate stretch of white cotton, now stained in the shape of need.
My need.
His doing.
Our mess.
God.
And because I was ridiculous—and because I wanted everything to be perfect—I brought them to my nose. Just once. A quick, quiet inhale.
Relief flooded me.
They didn’t smell rank or wild. Just. . .warm cloth with a trace of honeyed sweat. The scent wasn’t shameful—it was intimate.
Am I really going to do this?
I inspected them next, smoothing the fabric out in my palms.
